


Lorem Ipsum

by Anonymous



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Office, F/M, FrUK is endgame but open relationships are very much a thing in this, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:48:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23291209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: On the many sarcastic trials and dramatic tribulations of one Marianne Bonnefoy, star employee in an international publishing house, and her beleaguered PA, the ever-irritable Arthur Kirkland.Or: how no office stationery is safe, and two fools fall in love.Work will get done and books will be published. Eventually.
Relationships: England/Female France (Hetalia), Female France/Others (Hetalia), Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 23
Collections: anonymous





	1. Little Bunny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! If you remember this baby from the KM, you’re _old_. (Welcome.) Updates to this will be slow, but there will be updates. Earlier chapters have been shaken, stirred slightly and given the formatting boot.  
> Where possible, please view this work with the author’s custom work skin turned _on_. I suffered so you could have the pretty.
> 
> Names:  
> Jean-Luc: Picardy (a terrible pun I know)  
> Emma: Belgium

This is how morning begins:

1) The loud melodic _bounce_ of _Little Bunny Foo Foo_ starting up in the depths of a dim bedroom (an artfully messy abode revealed in the grey light seeping in through thin curtains, two sets of discarded clothes marking a path from the room’s door to the bed).

2) A groan from the bed as one of the inhabitants is drawn reluctantly out of her spiderweb dreams in response, the swan-arch of her back rising beneath the covers as she turns, reaches and fumbles on her nightstand, hunting for the phone that isn’t where it should be.

3) A sleepy _whine_ from the second person in the room as the one already awake reaches over him to the other nightstand (rolling on top of him when the stretching becomes too much of an effort and thus having to resist the temptation to curl into sleep-soft skin below like a sunning cat). Accidentally smacking him in the face on the way. (“Que _ri_ da, my _nose_.”)

4) _Foo Foo_ gets louder and the sought-after phone at last gets grabbed, the call taken and clipped British tones (oh, annoyed as _ever_ ) gracing the room with civil disgust.

 _“Marianne, you’re late._ Again.”

“… _Arthur_ ,” Marianne drawls, hearing the sleep in her own voice as she wedges the phone against one ear and flops down onto the slow rise-fall of Antonio’s bare chest. She draws looping curls with one finger near his collarbone, and all but purrs as the Spaniard echoes her by sliding warm hands down the curve of her spine. “Mon petit, would it really be _too_ much to ask for a ‘good morning’ before you begin to scold?”

 _“‘Good_ morning’?!” Arthur’s in a fine mood today – there’s no noise from the office on his end of the phone, which means he’s set aside his precious work for the moment (a _miracle_ ) and gone somewhere quiet to devote himself _utterly_ to the education and betterment of Marianne’s person. He’d be cute if he weren’t so grumpily _serious_ about it all. _“Have you looked at the time?!”_

Marianne hasn’t – and isn’t particularly inclined to either. Antonio’s thumbs rub small secrets into the hollows above her hips, lips smiling at her temples as he nuzzles into her hair. ( _Oh_ , if only men like Antonio were the rule rather than the exception.)

“Really,” Marianne indulges her own pet dictator even as she teases him, tilts about slightly so she can see red lines solemnly announce the time – _11:38_ , “even a _hello_ would suffice by this point, Arthur. We both know how terribly hard it is for you to curb your inner delinquent, and, as a result, I am willing to make a few minor concessions -”

 _“You were supposed to be here_ three hours _ago! Bonnefoy, do you_ ever _look at the itineraries I make for you?”_

“Of course not.” Genuine surprise. “You keep handing them to me every day, whenever am I supposed to find the time to look at them?”

There’s a familiar-sounding _thump_ from the other end of the line. Arthur’s hitting his head off the wall again. _“They’re_ daily _itineraries.”_

“You always tell me what I need to get done each day, anyway -”

 _“Ah, but for me to do that, you see – that actually requires you to be here_ at work, _Bonnefoy. On time._ Every day. _Not lounging around in bed with your latest fling-come-best friend – that_ is _Antonio, by the way, isn’t it? He should get his arse into work too.”_ Marianne flicks an amused glance down at the man beneath her, Antonio’s eyes very wide and very green at being caught out – she can half-dream her smile in them. The drowsy endearments or idiocies he’d been murmuring into her neck (not that the idiocies weren’t terribly endearing) stop completely. _“I heard Spanish.”_

Marianne just laughs, a rolling chuckle. “ _You_ tell me, mon lapin; isn’t it your job to keep tabs on what I’m up to so you can better organise my life?”

_“I’m your PA, not your bloody CCTV camera.”_

“I wouldn’t put it past you to be _both_ , cher. Why, just lately it feels almost like there are covetous _eyes_ watching me whilst I’m in my bathroom -”

Arthur cuts her off before she can go on. _“That’s your own perverted imagination, Bonnefoy. If it isn’t, and you’ve actually acquired a stalker, God help the poor sod.”_

“Your concern is endlessly flattering.”

 _“Your capriciousness is intensely annoying.”_ Arthur sighs – Marianne can almost _see_ him pinching the bridge of his nose, so common is the sound and scene. Perhaps Marianne ought to buy him a new stress-ball; the last apple-shaped one is looking a bit worn. _“…Marianne, you_ really _need to be here within half an hour. You have a long meeting scheduled at half-one this afternoon with Ludwig about recent budgeting that can’t be moved, and a pile of paperwork to look through before then in prep. Gilbert’s been in touch about the recent promotion for those kids’ books he’s been harping on about recently – apparently it’s not_ yellow _enough. Give him a call on your way over here, if you can; I’m sick to death of chasing him out of my office. Everything else we can probably reschedule for tomorrow – and you_ will _look at your goddamn itinerary for that and for every day from now on, or I’ll ram them down your_ throat _, so help me God. Have you got all that?”_

“Perfectly,” Marianne says, and tactfully decides not to state that the itineraries would probably taste better than the scones Arthur so determinedly brings in from time to time. Even smothered in jam and cream, those things are _awful_. “See you in half an hour.”

Arthur doesn’t reply – he hangs up, and Marianne is left lamentably wide-awake with the dial-tone in her ears and Antonio blinking questioningly up at her.

“Marianne…”

“Duty calls,” Marianne announces, rolling off of her now - possibly - most favourite human pillow as casually as she’d rolled onto him and back onto the cool sheets she’d only so recently vacated. Wishes she could spread out and burrow into the softness and slumber once more – but the nagging that would bring would be _phenomenal_ , so she sits up and swings her feet out of bed.

Arthur Kirkland, poutiest PA of them all, has her address, and he’d proven in the past that he isn’t afraid to _use_ it. Arthur had overlooked golden opportunities and dragged Marianne out of her home half-dressed on more than one occasion – flat shoes, loose hair and absolutely _no_ make-up -; the man’s a petty tyrant when crossed too many times in one day.

She glances back over her shoulder, however, when she stands. Antonio is shamelessly watching her, half-propped up in bed just to see where the light coming through the curtains slants lines down Marianne’s skin, picking out the lighter gold in her hair.

Marianne lets her lips curl upwards - promises, promises, knowing Antonio sees every one of them when he gets a familiar gleam in his eye. “I’m missing some covetous eyes in my bathroom, chéri. Do you fancy providing them?”

They shower together.

Marianne – _just_ – makes it to work on time.

  
  
  
  


In hindsight, perhaps greeting Arthur Kirkland for the first time with _‘you mean there’s actually a_ person _under those eyebrows?’_ had _not_ been the best way to start a professional working relationship with the man. The follow-up of _‘Those_ are _eyebrows, yes? You haven’t just got two dead caterpillars stuck to your face?’_ had been the deal-clincher, the last straw, l’étincelle qui a fait allumer l’ _incendie_ –

(Dragons breathe green fire.)

Marianne hadn’t wanted another PA. Her last (and first) one, Jean-Luc, had been wonderful at the job, and they’d gotten along brilliantly. Jean-Luc had been useful and charming and _French_ – a home away from home and an antidote to homesickness. A kiss on the cheek in the mornings beside the inevitable work pile and a quick joke when the day grew too dull, fast mind, fast mouth and a leaning towards liberty that had had the office either rolling their eyes when he had been with Marianne or asking them to take it elsewhere. His one true failing was that he’d fallen in love with a pretty American girl and _married_ her, uprooting after a few short months and going elsewhere when his new wife’s job took them there.

Oh… it was not the love at fault, never the love, true love – Marianne had been invited to the wedding, and both bride and groom had been _suffused_ with the stuff, white veil, white smiles and the blue, blue sky of dreams overhead – but Jean-Luc’s leaving had left her one PA down and the higher-ups had offered her nought but a thundercloud to fill his place, this man roiling and rolling and so very, very _English_.

Marianne’s introduction to Arthur could have gone so, _so_ much better than it had done. In her defence she had been in a bad mood that day, he’d looked about as impressed with her as she had been with him, and his suit had been the most _hideous_ shade of _brown_. Brown with an _orange tie_ ; oh, she’d wanted to gouge out her _eyes_ – and Arthur…

Arthur had smiled so politely, shaken her hand, and given as good as he’d got.

_‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Bonnefoy. Do you take your arsenic with coffee, or without?’_

It had been, as Antonio is inclined to put it when the topic comes to light, over coffee, Marianne’s complaints, and general laughter, the start of a beautiful relationship. (If by ‘beautiful’ Antonio means ‘loud, antagonistic, and generally destructive towards life, limb and property,’ his own PA, Emma, is prone to reminding him, before grabbing Antonio by the arm and dragging him back to work.)

  
  
  
  


_Marianne,  
__Robert D. called; offered his apologies - has to cancel dinner on Thurs but will call within the week to rearrange._

_Your sister called; Sat lunch at usual place/time is good, though she may be running a little late. Table for 1:30, outdoor, non-smoking._

_Your hairdresser called – app. clash. Ring her back. Also, have you been taking all my black pens again? I can’t keep drafting up your notes in red and green – I look like a sodding Christmas cracker when they leak._

_Bonnefoy, would you stop using the office phone to receive personal calls? They’re supposed to be used for business or emergencies only – and I’m not your answer-phone. _

  
  
  
  


“At last, the prodigal one sashays in.” Arthur’s dry voice greets Marianne almost the moment she sets foot in his outer office. The ingrate doesn’t even bother to look up from a stack of notes on his desk before speaking; Marianne has never quite been able to work out how he does it. Mirrors, perhaps – or even cameras, since Arthur’s ever-tousled hair and choice of clothing strongly suggests the man has never seen a mirror in his _life._ “Did you call Gilbert before you got here like I asked, or do I need to start carrying a cricket bat to stop him bothering me about his wretched books?”

“Good afternoon, cher.” Marianne stops at Arthur’s desk and pokes at the plush green-gold dragon he has there if only to get her PA to look up at her.

Arthur twitches (he _does_ so hate anyone poking at his dragon) but waits a few seconds longer (just to be annoying) before finally glancing up. His hair is still a mess in his eyes and he’s frowning – inwardly, Marianne sighs. The grass is green and the pope is catholic; the world still turns as it did the day before.

“Yes, I called Gilbert. We talked, he talked at me, and I’ve pointed him towards Design to take up his case with them. If he wants more yellow in the advertising, _he_ needs to convince Design that the covers ought not to clash with the colour so much. No cricket bats required.”

“I could downgrade to a tennis racquet.” Such sacrifice.

“You play tennis?”

“You don’t have to be able to play tennis to hit someone with a racquet.” Arthur looks away to cap his pen and set the papers he’d been working on aside in a neat pile. By the time he looks back at Marianne again she’s hidden her smile.

Whatever Arthur sees on her face instead causes him to pause – but then he shrugs, stands, and goes for the jacket hanging on the back of his chair. Grey today – all grey, with a white collared shirt and a black waistcoat that almost looks _good_ on him. (Has Arthur always been so slim?) No tie, either.

Marianne considers him. “…Did somebody else dress you this morning?”

Arthur glares at her. “That’s none of your business.”

“You should let them dress you more often.”

“Still none of your business.” Arthur’s going red, how _sweet_. Marianne would poke him in the cheek, if only she could be certain he wouldn’t break her nail in response. “Are you actually going to go and get some work done now you’ve finally decided to grace the office with your presence?”

“Oui, oui.” Marianne brushes off the question with a flap of her hand. “The meeting with Ludwig isn’t until one-thirty, correct? I have over an hour to get sorted. Have you put the work on my desk?”

“It’s been there since half-eight.” Oh, Arthur _does_ know how to hold a grudge. “The ones with yellow post-its need signing – _before_ the meeting, please. Green need reading, and the pink need to be brought along with you this afternoon. I left a clear-folder at the side of your desk for that purpose; try not to lose it.”

But that sounds like – “And what will _you_ be doing whilst I’m going through all that?”

“I,” Arthur tells Marianne with more than a hint of ill-restrained smugness in his eyes (she’s grown to hate that look – or enjoy it, when she occasionally succeeds in stomping it flat; Arthur makes himself far too fun to thwart), “am going to take my lunch break.” The unspoken but incredibly _audible_ ‘because I was here on time and am therefore _entitled_ to it’ tacked on the end.

…Arthur is evil. Arthur is an evil creature. An evil, hell-spawned, _sadistic_ creature who Marianne dearly wants to throttle at that very moment in time – and the demon _knows_ it, as evidenced by the oh-so-charming smile he flashes her, half a mock-bow before he slides his jacket on and saunters for the door.

“The phone’s already diverted to your desk,” he announces, and Marianne wonders whether it would be immature of her to pick up his ridiculous little desk-dragon and toss it at his stupid head. “I’ll be back in just under an hour.”

Marianne lets the dragon be, and goes to sulk in her office instead.

  
  
  
  


_Arthur, chéri, for what possible reason would I steal your black pens? As you can see, I write in blue._

_You write in black._

_I assure you, this is blue._

_I double-check your notes_ _, Bonnefoy – you write in whatever colour pen you can grab. And you’ve been grabbing all my black pens._

_Paranoia_ _. I can grab my own pens. ~~Have I been working you too hard, mon petit? Perhaps you ought to take an afternoon nap; it might make you less grumpy.~~_

_You can grab your own pens – but you don’t. That would involve walking to Supplies. Give me back my pens and go fetch your own. If you did your goddamn work when you were supposed to my life would be a hell of a lot easier. _

_An Alice Laurent called while you were at lunch; said she’d call back later._

_Since when have I been here to make your life easy, Arthur?_

_Stop wasting post-its, Bonnefoy, or you can fetch a new batch from Supplies along with those pens you owe me._

_Should I buy you a box of black pens for your birthday? You seem terribly fond of them, after all._

_Please, do so. I always want for something new to stab you with, after all._

_Have you considered therapy?_


	2. Bambi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Names:  
> Elrica: fem!Austria

As a rule of thumb at the Central HetaWorld Publishing House office, unless a) it is an exceptionally _busy_ point in the day, b) there is a _dire_ need for you to get somewhere in a hurry, c) you’re just plain stupid, or, d) all of the above, when Marianne Bonnefoy and her PA Arthur Kirkland enter a lift together, everybody else gets off at the next floor. Or the floor after that, if they’re brave, they’ve been dared, or are attempting to be subtle. Hell on earth is pretending to be oblivious whilst stuck in a cramped little metal box that smells of coffee, B.O and a particularly cloying brand of perfume/aftershave, all of it coated in crackling animosity deep enough to drown any damned soul unfortunate enough to wade into it without a life-ring.

The lift summarily seized by Marianne and Arthur, New Hell’s inhabitants sensibly flee for the safety of the next floor the moment the doors slide open. They leave behind the two renowned demons that have driven them out to eyeball one another - one on each side of the small compartment, the lift’s mirrored walls reflecting each other and forever back at them.

The never-ending reflection gives Marianne something of a headache – and Arthur’s green-eyed glare flickering up at her over the tablet in his hands from time-to-time doesn’t help matters in the slightest.

 _“What?”_ she asks at last, half a snap, ignoring the doors opening on the _next_ floor down and all the people who don’t come inside when they see who the lift’s already occupied now. “What great travesty have I done or not done _this_ time?”

The doors slide shut again, and Arthur doesn’t look up from the screen of his tablet. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Marianne frowns at him, lips pursed thin. Arthur had been in a good enough mood _before_ he’d arrogantly swanned off on his lunch break ( _because_ he’d swanned off on his lunch break, wretched slave-driver), but when he’d returned his usual thundercloud of a personality had been fixed back firmly in place, dour and grumbling as he brought down the atmosphere around him.

“Passive-aggression ill-suits you, mon chéri -”

“I am not your _chéri_!”

The doors slide open again and one man actually comes forward and puts his foot inside – before noticing the dark _glower_ being directed at Marianne by her PA, and promptly removing both his foot and the rest of his person again.

“I don’t want any of your _ridiculous_ nicknames -”

“Ah,” Marianne croons, deliberately needling, “but they’re given out of _amour_.”

“Then you can take your _amour_ and shove it up your-” A stifled giggle from the other side of the _still_ open lift doors draws Arthur’s attention before he can finish his sentence. Four wide-eyed faces look back at him (one still the poor unfortunate of before), privy to the conversation, all of them rapidly shrinking back under the force of the narrow-eyed glare suddenly turned upon them. “Don’t you lot have _somewhere else_ to be? _Now_?”

The group on the other side of the doors make prompt and obedient noises about it being a lovely day to get some exercise in, and hastily depart for the stairs.

Marianne just sighs at the display, and hits the button to close the doors so the lift can continue its descent. “Ever the gentleman, Arthur.”

Arthur scowls again – a milder expression than before and closer to a pout than anything else, his petulance tempered somewhat by being able to vent on idiotic innocents – and sinks back against his side of the lift compartment in a deceptively lazy line. “When _you’re_ a lady, _I’ll_ be a bloody gentleman.”

Marianne smiles and crosses over to his side, weary of their images clashing in the mirrors. The higher ups are due another memo about interior decorating. “As opposed to a normal gentleman?”

Arthur doesn’t shift away, steadily apathetic. His ground. “Go to hell.” 

“I tried, but the last vacancy had your name on it.” Arthur sighs. _Audibly_. Marianne just grins at him. (Heels are a blessing for equal height.) “À bon chat, bon rat, mon copain.”

Arthur grumbles, but the lift doors slide smoothly open again: their stop. “I’m not your goddamn rat, either,” he says, and strides out.

Marianne follows a beat after him, more sedate and _infinitely_ amused. Arthur’s mind works in mysterious ways – and if it is the _rat_ part of her comment that he wishes to make a fuss about, so be it. Marianne has had stranger friendships.

Ludwig is already waiting for them inside the meeting room when they arrive, papers spread out (neatly) on the table in front of him. He stands when Marianne enters and blushes dull red when she kisses both his cheeks – dear Ludwig, always so predictable -, waiting for Marianne to sit and deposit the files she’d been carrying before taking his own seat again. (Marianne eyes Arthur – who had taken his seat as soon as he’d entered, crossed one leg over the other and ignored his companions with all the haughty grace God had ill-thought to bestow upon any Englishman – pointedly after the little perfunctory rigmarole is done. _This_ is how a gentleman should act.)

“Is the lovely Elrica not joining us today?” The seat at Ludwig’s side – where the man’s PA, the poised Ms. Elrica Edelstein, usually sits when at meeting with them – is conspicuously empty, and Marianne cannot help but comment on it.

It’s not rare for Ludwig to take his own notes and leave his PA to attend to business elsewhere whilst he’s at a meeting – but then again, it is as equally common for Elrica to get lost on her way to the meeting room, _especially_ on the days when she’s found by Gilbert and is deliberately sent off in the wrong direction. (Gilbert does it for ‘the kicks’, apparently, as well as the fact he gets to wind-up both his brother and his brother’s PA in one fell swoop. Ludwig disapproves on behalf of everyone involved.)

“Regrettably, Ms. Edelstein is off sick today.” Ludwig sifts through his notes, occupied as ever by work. (Why hadn’t they given Arthur to _him_?) “One of the interns is filling in some of her duties for her until she returns. He should be with us presently – he volunteered to go fetch drinks for us all before we settled down to work.” A glance up. “A chai latte and tea with two milks, one sugar, correct?”

Marianne could kiss Ludwig. Again. “He went out of the building?”

“On his lunch break – he offered to bring the drinks on his return journey to the office.”

“Such a _considerate_ young man,” Marianne all but coos, already dreaming of her caffeine. _Proper_ caffeine, not the terrible stuff that plagues the poor little kitchenette on the floor where her office is. There is only so much one can do for a hot beverage without hauling in one’s own espresso-machine. “With that sort of ethic, I’m sure he’ll go far in the industry.”

Arthur scoffs something that sounds suspiciously like ‘addict’ under his breath. Marianne kicks him under the table. Discreetly. With the sharp point of her heel.

They make small talk for another five minutes or so (Arthur, being Arthur, probably has the exact time down to the millisecond) until there is a light knock on the door. It opens immediately afterwards and a hesitant head sticks itself around the jamb –

And Arthur scowls. (Marianne can take him _nowhere_.) “ _You_! What the hell are _you_ doing here?”

“E-eh-?!” Wide eyes blink once, twice – mon _Dieu_ , the poor dear at the door looks like _Bambi,_ very baby-fawn-in-the-headlights with his eyes and his glasses and his mess of gold curling hair.

Marianne can see her precious, _precious_ caffeine sitting nestled in the arms of the young stranger whom Arthur’s apparent grudge (if his glower is anything to go on) is causing to back away, and something simply _must_ be done to save the bewildered boy and his valuable cargo before Arthur sends both fleeing elsewhere.

And so Marianne _does_ do something, poking her PA in the side and drawing his familiar glare back upon herself. She is quite used to it, and purses her lips reproachfully in reply. “For _goodness_ sake, Arthur! Can you not let the poor boy come inside before you start yelling at him?”

Coffee first, then confusion.

Even _Ludwig_ consents to be drawn away from his stoicism to frown at Arthur. “Do you have some problem with this gentleman, Mr. Kirkland?”

‘This gentleman,’ slowly edging back into the room and closer to the table, looks like doom is being dropped on his head. How _old_ is the boy? Twenty? If that? Poor Bambi – so young to die.

“This _gentleman_ ,” Arthur all but hisses (where _does_ he get all his ire from? Marianne has only seen disgruntled baby animals before who can compare), “assaulted me on my way to the cafeteria earlier.”

“…Eh?!” Bambi in confused distress. The latte is still too far away.

Arthur just keeps on going. “Assaulted me, harassed me and generally waylaid me – why have _you_ taken him in for shadowing, anyway?” He looks at Ludwig. “I thought this one was shadowing our dealings with the literary agencies.”

“ _Oh,_ ” says Bambi, and brightens with clear and beautiful understanding, the dawn across sparkling snow. And then promptly deflates. “Did you meet Al?”

“Al?” Marianne inquires, trying to coax the intern closer with a reaching hand.

It works, too. “My younger twin – Alfred Jones. He’s interning here too, at the moment. He – uh -” Bambi looks to Arthur - who looks unconvinced. (Marianne kicks him again.) “He mentioned meeting somebody… ah… _interesting_ on the way to lunch yesterday. Are you Artie?”

Arthur _twitches_. It’s beautiful. “ _No_.”

“Ah…” Bambi finally sets down the tray of drinks, using the action as a distraction for them all before offering out his hand between Marianne and Arthur, to whoever will take it first. Marianne grasps it, and smiles her most winning smile at the boy. “I’m Matthew Williams; it’s a pleasure to meet you.” _Mathieu_.

Arthur just eyes the precious creature who has brought them all relief from the drudgeries of work, unsociable to the last. “Are you even half as much an idiot as your brother?”

“Uh…” Matthew flounders, “I… don’t think so?”

Arthur nods. “Arthur Kirkland. Charmed.” And digs out his tablet again.

Marianne goes for her latte.

  
  
  
  


The meeting goes about as well as anyone expects it to – which is to say, exactly the opposite of how Ludwig had planned it and not very well at all, even though all the topics are eventually covered.

Marianne is good at making people want to buy things. It’s not boastful in any way to say that; it is a statement of fact, and the reason why Marianne is one of the higher-ups in HetaWorld’s Advertising department. She’s a good hostess, a charmer; she knows what to do or make or say to get people to stop and _look_. Ludwig, too, is good at advertising – but in such a different way. Ludwig appeals to logic and sensibilities and _details_. Prowess with paper versus prowess with people, a clash and a mix and something wonderful and dreadful that _works_ – somehow – for the department and the publishing house, but when it calls to divvying up the budget for certain projects –

Oh, sometimes the minutiae can be so _dull_. They discuss the details and finalise the fine points to _death_ – Arthur’s handwriting has long ago ceased to make any sense whatsoever to Marianne (not that his writing is particularly renowned for its legibility in the _first_ place) when she glances over at his notes on the meeting. There are lines crossed-out and rewritten and crossed-out again, shorthand squished in the margins around arrows and stars and added sections that make the paper under his pen look more like a piece of contemporary art or street graffiti (her punk PA – Marianne wouldn’t put it past him; she’s _heard_ some of the atrocities Arthur calls ‘music’) than a serious record.

Marianne’s own bored rendition of Arthur’s eyebrows via stick figure art had been silently confiscated by Ludwig about half-way through the meeting with neither Arthur nor sweet Matthew being any the wiser to its existence. (Ludwig, it seems, had inherited _all_ the tact in the Beilschmidt family at his birth.) Marianne is forced to occupy herself, instead, by dropping enough innuendo into her speech to make even her German companion blush (although it is quite often delayed as he works through her meaning), Arthur glance up at her in defence of his affronted English sensibilities (glaring at her meaningfully, _oh_ , so _meaningfully_ ) and _Mathieu_ – Matthew goes such a _charming_ shade of red.

Cataloguing the different tints of pink Bambi can go had kept Marianne _alive_ through the meeting: a flustered flicker of rose for a flirtatious look, high spots of red for an innuendo, and a glorious sweep of _crimson_ down the boy’s cheeks and neck for the one time Marianne had leant over to grab a document from the other end of the table with a cheerful nonchalance towards the fact that the move meant that the intern could see straight down the front of her shirt. Bless him, he looks immediately away.

Finally, _finally_ the torture is over and they can pack up their papers; they are done, c’est fini, _oui_.

“Did you have fun?” Arthur asks – _drawls_ , almost -, after the (still scarlet) Ludwig and Matthew have hastily offered their goodbyes and left the room.

Sitting on the edge of the table they had been gathered around, Marianne watches him gather up his notes and slide them into a folder to keep them flat and smooth. (Marianne wouldn’t put it past Arthur to _iron_ the things some days; perhaps the man had been a butler in a past life.) Her own papers are already gathered up into one (somewhat haphazard) pile and bound with a paperclip, giving her the time to fold her legs to give the best aesthetic for the room. A locked box of mysteries, come hither, Pandora. “I’m quite sure I have no idea what you’re talking about, chéri.” Arthur pauses for a second to look at her, his gaze green and flat, and Marianne laughs. “Ah, but he’s _adorable_ , don’t you think? Is his twin the same?”

“His _twin_ is a plague upon the face of this fair earth and an almighty pain in the arse.” Arthur has never been sparing with his descriptions, least of all for the ones relating the details of those unfortunates who annoy him. “Much like you, in that regard, but actually louder about it. Now,” Arthur straightens, tucking his folder under one arm, “are you ready to go?”

Marianne uncrosses her legs, but doesn’t move from her comfortable perch on the table. “It was the ‘Artie’ that got you, wasn’t it?”

“ _Are you ready to go?_ ”

Marianne laughs, again, and ignores the disgruntled look it earns her, obliging her companion by rising to her feet and sweeping up her things. “Ah, mon petit, you shouldn’t pout so. It’s a very cute name -”

“My name is _Arthur_.” Even when growling Arthur holds the door to the room open for her to exit first – an indicator that she hasn’t annoyed him _quite_ enough yet for him to try and slam it shut in her face. Once more, they both head for the lift (and a small group of people see them waiting there, and decide to take the stairs that afternoon instead). “Why are those two syllables apparently so difficult for people to remember? And I’m _including_ you in the list of the guilty, by the way. You’re one of the worst offenders.”

Marianne hums, ponders the question and then the man beside her - a study in slim grimness and grey. “…It is a humanising thing, I think. Quite instinctive, so you shouldn’t scold.”

“…‘Humanising.’” Arthur’s expression conveys all that he doesn’t say – ‘ _what_ am _I, a poodle?_ ’

“Humanising.” The lift arrives – empty, save for two people, both of whom Marianne proceeds to ignore (much to their ear-flapping delight and Arthur’s chagrin, the man preferring private conversations to remain exactly that. _Private_ ). “You’re – what, cher? Three years younger than me? And yet some days you act as though you are _twice_ my age, if not more.”

“Considering that _you_ barely act the same age as your _shoe size_ -”

Marianne’s lips twist in a moue. “But that would make me _ancient_ -”

“I’m not using bloody European measurements!”

“You just have to be _difficult_.” The lift stops, and the two other people present beside Arthur and Marianne hastily depart through the open doors. Marianne points after them, and Arthur scowls. “ _Look_ , you’re scaring everybody else away again. You are the antithesis to any form of social life, aren’t you?”

“ _I’m_ scaring them away?!”

“Yes, Arthur, that is what I _said_ -”

“Like _hell_ am I the one scaring them away, you-”

  
  
  
  


_Cher mon cher Arthur, since it behoves my hairdresser to inform me that she has double-booked my previous appointment with her_ _at the last minute_ _, dire straits have meant that I have been_ _forced_ _into accepting her only other free slot, at 2.30 (_ _quatorze heures et demi_ _) tomorrow._

~~_Even though you are an ill-dressed, unfashionable, and generally_ _deplorable_ ~~_~~example of anything that could be constituted as ‘chiq,’~~ _ _I am sure even_ _you_ _can understand the necessity of me making this appointment, for the sake of_ _all that is beautiful and just in the world_ _. I have a_ _reputation_ _to maintain._

_As a token of goodwill I leave here a black pen, fetched from Supplies by my own fair hands and faithfully delivered to your desk as an olive branch of peace, now rearrange my schedule for tomorrow please so I can make that appointment or I’ll put your dragon through the paper-shredder when you’re not looking.  
Love, Marianne~ x _

_You_ _do _ _realise you shouldn’t insult people when you’re asking them for a favour, frog? Or threaten their possessions._ ~~_And like_ _hell_ ~~_~~did you go to Supplies for this damn pen. You nicked it off my desk.~~_

~~_You’re_ _using_ _it. This means that my schedule better be rearranged._~~ _I find some people need the right_ _incentive_ _to get things done, mon petit._

_I’ve decided I’m simply far too busy rearranging your schedule to type up the minutes of yesterday’s meeting with the representatives from the design department. I’m afraid you’ll simply have to do without them as I reorganise your duties for tomorrow._

_I NEED_ _those minutes, you cretin!_

_Then perhaps you should type them up yourself? It’s all about_ _incentive_ _, frog. The master document is in your email. Do have fun._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _À bon chat, bon rat_ – For a good cat, a good rat, tit for tat, an even match/challenge
> 
> The discussion on shoe sizes: the US and Canada, the UK and Ireland and Continental Europe use different measurements for shoes. The UK and the US are pretty close (for example, a North American adult men’s 7 is a 6 in the UK), but places such as France, Italy, Germany and Spain use something called ‘Paris points,’ a point being about 2/3 of a centimetre. (A 6 in the UK, for example, would be somewhere between a 39 and a 40 in France, hence Marianne saying acting her shoe size would make her old.)


	3. Alfred

Another day, another debate, Marianne brooding behind her desk and doing nothing productive save slowly spin on her chair. Arthur has gone for lunch and the desk in _his_ outer office is without its attached pepperpot, necessity forcing Marianne to stay and mind the phones, his directed through to hers during _his_ lunch hour. His _whole_ lunch hour, which he takes in its entirety every day in a solid block just to spite her, Marianne swears.

Marianne is, of course, _also_ entitled to a lunch break, but _someone_ should be there to take any calls, of course, so Marianne sits there and achieves _nothing_ , ignores work she should be doing and have done and – and _wilts_ , a once-blooming flower rotting in the bud. Spoilt for the lack of entertainment in the form of the petulant, pouting _weed_ that thrives in adversity and exists just to blight the glorious garden of Marianne’s life.

Stupid Eyebrows.

After stewing for quarter of an hour Marianne decides _enough_ is _enough_ and redirects her phone once more, flouncing out of her office (ultimately) in search of her errant assistant – and quite willing to make a few detours along the way. She goes to Ludwig’s section first and is greeted somewhat warily by Elrica, who has returned from her time off and is in good health once more. Matthew is there as well - just as wary as Elrica but so much quicker to blush when Marianne takes his arm, holding the young man before he can escape the room.

Matthew makes a noise like a choking kitten. Marianne assists the intern by petting him on the shoulder.

“Is there something you require?” _Ms_. Edelstein is at her most haughty behind a desk. She knows exactly where her desk _is_ , after all (getting lost at least twice a day does nothing for one’s reputation), and is usually sitting down at it, so neither Gilbert nor Marianne (nor, if the rumours hold any merit - and the rumours always hold _some_ merit, Marianne knows –, a certain green-eyed _Eli_ from Accounts) can lay a hand on her rather beautiful behind and make her squawk. Such a shame. “You usually call if you wish to speak with Herr Beilschmidt.”

“ _Elrica_ –” Marianne laments quite tragically - “ma _chérie_ , always so impersonal! You are getting to be as bad as Arthur, I swear.”

“Perhaps it is something you bring out in people,” Elrica suggests in rather arch response, sweeping a portion of her dark pretty hair over her shoulder with one hand, “seeing that you are the common denominator in both cases.”

“I _am_ an inspiration,” Marianne agrees quite blithely, if only because she knows it will make Elrica all the more pettishly annoyed. Refusing to be insulted, Marianne smiles instead, squeezing Matthew’s arm against her side. “ _Mathieu_ , you must take care not to become old before your time like some of our acquaintances; it does _terrible_ things to your complexion.”

“Ah, actually,” Matthew fidgets, shifting a little way away from Marianne’s body and flushing darker when she follows him, his upper arm unable to avoid the press of her chest, “I was just going to go for lunch -”

“ _Wonderful_ ,” Marianne cuts him off, smiling and ignoring the eyeroll Elrica is doing at the sight, “so was I. We can walk to the cafeteria together, can’t we?”

“Um -”

“Lovely. Elrica-” another smile for Ludwig’s PA, magazine-white and impervious to the rather resigned look it’s met with in return - “I’ve redirected Arthur’s and my phones to yours while we are both away. Do be a dear and take any notes that come for us?”

Elrica starts. “ _Marianne_ -”

But Marianne is gone, gone, _gone_ already, whisking Matthew away and prying information out of him.

Matthew Williams, sweet thing, is twenty, and his and his brother’s birthday is July 1st - though Alfred apparently insists on celebrating his birthday on the 4th because that is Independence Day in the United States of America and is, therefore, clearly ‘ _cooler_ ’. Matthew likes pancakes and pastries and maple syrup, adores hockey and polar bears, and is fond of the colour red and autumn for its falling leaves and childhood memories of splashing in the puddles. He likes stories, likes being noticed but is unused to it, is often overshadowed by his louder twin (who he loves, of course, quite dearly, but sometimes just wants to _choke the living daylights out of_ ), and opens up and blushes less the more he talks to Marianne, the more she listens and nods and hears the start of a story of a life.

She returns the favour a little, somewhat – her birthday is July 14th and her favourite colour is blue, blue, all kinds of blue – and then apologises for her PA (an old spiel), for Arthur’s greeting of Matthew at the meeting, assuring the nervous intern that Arthur’s bark is much worse than his bite.

Matthew fails to be deeply reassured. “He _bites_?”

“He’s as harmless as a huffy bunny rabbit,” Marianne tells him, _staunchly_ ignoring Matthew’s rather despairing murmur of ‘but I’ve _seen_ Monty Python,’ and leads her younger companion through into the building’s cafeteria.

Just in time to see one Arthur Kirkland slam a serving tray into another man’s stomach.

_Ah._

The key to any sort of successful relationship – be it with _tes amis_ or _tes amants_ – is, as many self-help guides and love gurus are prone to announcing with overly dramatic aplomb, _communication_. There has to be an open and considerate exchange of words and ideas between people for bridges to be built, for _trust_ and _feeling_ to properly flourish, mutual respect, affection and understanding conveyed through the delicate nuances of speech and body language.

Marianne knows no language or culture wherein assaulting someone with a serving tray can pass as either ‘delicate’ or ‘considerate,’ though she has to sigh and give Arthur points for the technique he utilises as part of his approach to the ‘open exchange’ section of interpersonal skills. A tray to the stomach is pretty open indeed – seen by everyone in the cafeteria, certainly _felt_ by the unfortunate stranger stumbling back a step or two to clutch at his belly, and rather hard to diagnose as anything else but _‘get the hell away.’_ Point effectively communicated, albeit with a great deal of unnecessary fuss, the whole _tralala. Everyone_ is staring.

(For all his ‘gentlemanly’ ways, Arthur is dreadfully good at making a scene.)

“ _Arthur_!” Marianne abandons Matthew at the cafeteria door – the poor darling will forgive her, she knows, for that is just who _Mathieu_ is and clearly _someone_ must tame the beast because Arthur so obviously has his back up and is hissing like a hellcat – and advances to grasp her PA’s weapon of choice.

She doesn’t quite dare to lay a hand on Arthur’s arm (one does not shove their fingers into a live plug socket) but grabbing the tray stops Arthur taking another swing at his victim of the hour – and earns Marianne a glare full of narrow-eyed intensity, switching from the stranger to her when she intercedes.

“Arthur – _really_. Is such violence necessary?”

“ _Quite_ ,” Arthur snaps at her and goes to try and yank the tray away, but Marianne only tightens her grip. 

Someone has _certainly_ rubbed her little rabbit up the wrong way, and yet looking at the one Arthur is still glowering at hotly over her shoulder yields Marianne no immediate answers, because –

“ _Mathieu_?” Marianne is quite sure she had left the boy out of harm’s way by the door and yet there the intern stands before her, tall, blond, broad and bruised, so unless Matthew is somehow capable of splitting himself into two – _ah._

Of course.

Marianne smiles. “You must be Alfred.”

‘Alfred’ looks up at her from where he had been inspecting his front for damages, and, now Marianne knows to look for them, the differences are quite, _quite_ obvious. For a start, _this_ twin’s eyes seem just a shade lighter than the other’s, and his hair is shorter and straighter. He is certainly no pain to look at – a bright, beautiful boy.

For a finish – _well_. Marianne has finally found someone with a worse taste in ties than Arthur. Alfred is wearing a tie patterned with _hamburgers_.

Still, she can see how Arthur had mistaken this boy for his twin.

Alfred eyes her a little unsurely. “Ma’am?”

“Al, _what did you do?_ ” Marianne startles when a new voice starts speaking suddenly at her side – Matthew this time, it has to be, arms folded across his chest and thoroughly exasperated. Bambi meets Thumper.

Arthur seems just as surprised by Matthew’s sudden appearance, his grip on the serving tray slackening. Marianne takes the opportunity to pull it out of his hands completely.

Unfortunately, Alfred seems to take a disarmed Arthur as a harmless Arthur, leaping _far_ too quickly to his own defence at his brother’s questioning and _flailing_. (Wonderful. Marianne has always appreciated almost getting smacked in the face by a human windmill.)

“ _He_ hit _me_ with a tray and you’re askin’ what _I_ did?!”

(The cafeteria crowds are still avidly listening. The office is going to be talking about this for _weeks._ )

Arthur scoffs. “I’ve warned you before – you deserve everything you get.”

 _“I said_ ‘hello’!”

_“You slapped my arse!”_

There had been arse-slapping already? (Weeks and _weeks_.)

“I don’t really see what the problem is, mon chou,” Marianne points out to Arthur quite reasonably, ducking behind her PA to thoughtfully examine the behind in question. “Your _derrière_ looks the same as it has always done. Very slappable.”

Arthur makes a scandalised noise and covers up his behind with both hands so quickly he manages to slap _himself_. It’s a shame for it to be so quickly hidden away, considering Arthur has such a beautiful specimen (yes, it is a pity about the rest of him) – and Marianne can _perfectly_ empathise with the temptation Alfred must have suffered upon hearing the deliciously _firm_ clap Arthur’s hands make.

“ _Pervert_ ,” Arthur hisses at her, but Marianne only shrugs. Call a cat a cat.

“ _Al,_ ” Matthew remonstrates his twin, only for Alfred to jut out his lower lip in a definitive _pout_.

“Look what he did to my _stomach_ ,” Alfred complains, reaching with both hands for the hem of his untucked dress shirt and lifting it up high enough to expose the lower part of his chest and abdomen.

A great deal of muscled gold tan is revealed, along with an interesting shade of blue-tinged red in the middle about the size of one tray. (Arthur has always known best how to leave his mark.)

…Marianne has to hand it to the boy, it’s a terribly effective distraction.

“You poor thing,” says Marianne with deep sympathy, laying a soft hand on Alfred’s rapidly developing bruise. “Does it hurt very much? Would you like some ice for the pain?”

Beside her, Arthur growls. “ _Bonnefoy_ -”

“Er,” says Alfred, still holding his shirt up and looking thoroughly lost at the woman touching his bare waist. “Er, wouldn’t that get my shirt wet…?”

Marianne smiles brightly, waving away his concern. “Just take it off, no-one would m-”

“The shirt,” Arthur interrupts, grabbing Marianne’s wrist and yanking it away from Alfred’s skin (ignoring the pout she sends his way, the cretin. Really, Arthur has absolutely _no_ appreciation for any of the beautiful things in life), “stays _on_.” Alfred hastily drops his hemline again, and Marianne inwardly _laments_. “People are _eating_.”

Wishful thinking if ever Marianne has heard it. Everyone in the cafeteria is _far_ too busy staring at the little drama being enacted in their midst.

“ _Al_ ,” Matthew butts in, now more than a little desperately, in an attempt to keep the peace, “have you met Ms. Bonnefoy yet? She works in Advertising. Mr. Kirkland here is her personal assistant.”

“ _Marianne_ ,” says Marianne, all charm and champagne sparkles, extending her hand again – this time for Alfred to shake.

“Ma’am,” Alfred says again as he folds her fingers between his own, halfway to a drawl by the sounds of it, syrup and sunshine, smiling and not pulling back early when Marianne chooses to let her hold linger. Hel _lo_ American boy. “Alfred F. Jones, at your service.”

“Not Williams?”

“It’s a long story,” Matthew offers apologetically, glancing around them and far too aware of the gazes of the other people in the room. Entirely the wrong sort of attention for poor _Mathieu._

“We should go out for food sometime and discuss it then,” Alfred suggests, and is promptly shot down.

“No way in hell,” is Arthur’s blunt opinion on the matter, the man curtly nodding his head as means of goodbye (so _rude_ ) and striding away to glower the hot food on display into submission.

When he picks up a tray again Alfred notably sidles behind his brother.

Matthew just sighs and stays put, apparently too used to being used as a defensive shield.

“ _Man_ ,” Alfred says, bouncing back quickly from being so easily dismissed, and Marianne cannot tell whether the tone in the boy’s voice is admiration or complaint, “that guy needs a _leash_.”

That _is_ an idea.

Seeing the show is now over, the cafeteria crowds slowly disperse. The twins leave about five minutes later after making a little more small talk with Marianne – to a McDonalds outside the office building, Matthew suggesting they go somewhere else to let Arthur properly cool down and Alfred refusing to go anyplace but what is apparently his favourite fast food establishment. Marianne respectfully declines their invitation for her to join them (her taste-buds would never forgive her otherwise), going instead to sit with Arthur – who, by that time, has taken a table by himself near one of the windows and is making his way through what looks like a cup of tea and a bacon sandwich.

The sun shines in on him, lights his dun gold hair butter-mellow and picks out where his lashes shadow his cheeks, the smudges of flour on his fingertips and the corner of his mouth from his bread. His white shirt and pale skin seem, for that short sunburst, all aglow, and he is _beautifully_ unconscious in that instant of being watched.

He’d look good with a leash, a slim black collar to choke around his neck and break up all the pristine white.

(The thought should probably disturb Marianne more than it does.)

And then Arthur looks up, sees Marianne looking at him, and predictably _scowls_. “ _What_?” he asks gracelessly, shifting his legs to the side to give Marianne room when she slides into the seat opposite him. Both of them are long-limbed creatures and in need of the stretching room – perhaps it’s why they seem to take up too much of each other’s space all the time. “What are you thinking about?”

Marianne smiles at him, relaxed and mollifying, and shakes her head. “Nothing bad, chéri, I assure you.”

Arthur just snorts at her response, taking another bite of his lunch. “Well it’s certainly nothing _good_ with that look on your face. That’s the sort of expression that spells extra work and headaches for me.”

Marianne just tuts at him, closing her eyes, leaning back in her seat, and basking in the sunshine. “You have a _terrible_ work ethic.”

“At least I _have_ a work ethic.”

“You wound me so.” Marianne opens her eyes again to Arthur’s distrustful gaze, the gold-flecked green under the shadow of his fringe surprisingly vivid with his pupils shrunk small in the light. “Your pretty _petit ami_ has already formed strong opinions about you, you know.”

Arthur stares at her over his sandwich. “My pe- _Bonnefoy_ , what the fuck are you talking about?”

“ _Language_ ,” Marianne chides him, speaking over the _tch_ she’s given in reply. “ _Alfred_ , cher. His puppy crush on you is quite cute.”

“‘Puppy crush,’” Arthur repeats. Blank. (Perhaps Marianne should take up ventriloquism.)

“Do people _usually_ grab at you without having some sort of passing interest in your person?” (Perhaps a better question might be whether Arthur chooses to _deck_ everyone who physically displays a passing interest in his person, but Marianne has no desire to provoke her companion too much when she is within kicking distance.)

“…Being around you has been rather desensitising in that regard,” Arthur tells her after a moment or two, just a _little_ dry about it. “You have a distressing lack of modesty.”

“And you have a distressing _excess_ of it,” he’s informed, Marianne leaning forward a little over the tabletop as they trade understatements of the century, “most of it woefully misplaced. As you are so fond of telling me, _chaperone_ is not part of your job description.”

Arthur finishes his sandwich, wiping his hands on the paper napkin he’d left beside his plate and leaving a long streak of grease and flour. He thoroughly ignores his home country’s etiquette and picks up his tea with both hands, cradling the warmth between his palms. “I swear _babysitter_ is included in the fine print though – it certainly _feels_ like it anyway, most of the time – so if you’ve _quite_ finished bothering me could you please kindly get on with getting your lunch and getting back to work? Before whichever poor sod you’ve temporarily shoved off both our workloads onto comes seeking our heads.”

“Elrica,” Marianne says, half an apology, and absently notes Arthur is getting worryingly good at subtly changing the conversational topic when it inconveniences him. Her PA is picking things up again – typically, none of them are any of the things (such as fashion sense) Marianne has tried to teach him.

Arthur just groans. “Right, before she tells Ludwig and earns us both a lecture on time-management skills and responsibilities towards fellow members of staff, then.” Which they’ve both earned on numerous occasions in the past. “You couldn’t have stayed at your desk for another half an hour?”

Marianne shrugs, “I was bored,” rising from her seat to inspect what the cafeteria has to offer and leaving the lecture she can _see_ on Arthur’s face on his lips. He’ll have it all ready for her when she gets back with food, she knows – but then, distractions come so easily, and this little cafeteria visit has provided her with plenty of pretty ammunition. Something will come up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The Monty Python (killer) bunny.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=99X8WDQWAKg)
> 
> _Petit ami_ – lit. ‘little friend’, boyfriend


End file.
